The Source of Misfortune
by Firing Rockets on Dragons
Summary: Effie Trinket is not claustrophobic. The problem is that she hates a certain alcoholic.


Title: The Source of Misfortune

Rating: T

Summary: One does not have to be a claustrophobic to suffer in an elevator.

Prompt: #19 Technical malfunction

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy. I own copies of the books, though.

Author's Note: I've submitted this fanfiction to a Tumblr site (I think it was Hayffie Prompts) a long time ago. I just wanted to put it up here as well. I love Hayffie.

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"This is your fault," Effie said, crossing her arms and pursing her lips.

Haymitch was chugging down the last of his liquor, relishing the dregs that slowly trickled down towards the mouth of the bottle and into his dry tongue, when the elevator came to a halt. The fluorescent lamps that illuminated the enclosed vessel flickered on and off until they grew weary and died. He heard the escort's cold and accusatory tone and it irked him. He removed the bottle from his mouth and sucked on his teeth, savoring the bitter, intoxicating flavor. The mentor fished out a tiny flashlight from his breast pocket – the one he used when his nightmares woke him up in the middle of the night and he had to see if anyone was hiding in the shadows – and turned it on, bringing light to the dark enclosed space they were stuck in.

"Don't start with me again, woman," his voice was low and raspy, almost threatening. The dim radiance his portable light source gave off did not help to assuage the frightening impression he projected.

She half-expected the mentor to smash the bottle in two and stab her repeatedly with its jagged edges (after three years of working with him, it had been made clear that he detested her, and the feeling was mutual), but he belched instead, filling the room with the stench of alcohol and morning breath. She glowered at him with sapphire eyes that shone with intense hatred. He merely raised an eyebrow and sat on a corner.

"What?" the drunkard did not know where he went wrong this time, "you Capitol lassies don't burp? Is it too _improper_ for your lot?"

Effie scoffed. He would not be able to recognize manners if it slapped him on the face. She rolled her eyes and punched the _emergency button _repeatedly, hoping that someone would rescue her from the fate of being stuck with Haymitch Abernathy, the laughing stock of Panem. It had been a good morning. She woke up feeling invigorated from a complete sleep cycle, took a refreshing shower that filled her senses with the essence of lavender, and dressed with an eye-catching purple suit, a matching purple wig, and a newly-purchased pair of purple heels. She generously applied a variety of colors on her face and she felt pretty, majestic even. Everything was perfect, until she had to share an elevator ride with the drunken victor of District 12. But that was inevitable because they shared the same penthouse, lived with the same tributes, and had the same destination: the lobby. That was another one of her concerns, they were late for a meeting with a prospective sponsor; not that Haymitch's appeal would do much to seal the deal. She sighed. The possibility of her being promoted to a better district decreased with every year.

"You are bad luck, Haymitch," she muttered.

Haymitch sniffed, and then sneered at the woman who stood close to the buttons. He was still slouched on a corner at the back, playing with his flashlight, rotating it in his hand. His other hand was holding onto the empty bottle; he occasionally shook it to see if there was any drop left. He was not taking the situation well. He hated Effie with a passion, and did not take kindly to the idea of being trapped with her inside a broken elevator. Yet he said nothing. It was enough that his dark hair was a tangled mess and his white dress shirt was soiled from last night's spilled vodka; it wasn't even tucked in his dark brown pants. He knew these little things made the escort curl her toes in repulsion. He inwardly laughed and patted the space beside him.

"Sit down and tell me more about the misfortunes I bring, princess," he said derisively. "Don't be shy. Dear old Haymitch will listen to your grievances."

Effie clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. It took all the willpower she had to stop herself from slapping the drunken lout, or kicking him in the face with her high-heels. She walked back and forth, mumbling about her disrupted schedule, the waiting sponsor, the tributes who were surely wondering where their mentor and escort had gone, and the poor emergency services they had in the training center.

Haymitch followed her every movement with his gray eyes; he was getting dizzy from the booze and her repetitive movements. He needed more alcohol to make him feel alive, or bring him to a stupor, but in his current situation, that was unlikely. He was getting impatient and he took it out on her.

"Would you stop moping and sit down?" he hissed, "I'm gettin' tired just watching you pace to and fro, mumbling things to yourself, and pressing on that stupid button when you know that you ain't getting any answers. Just sit down, calm down, and shut up."

Effie was silent for a moment, and then she sat on the corner facing him. She curled up and hugged her legs; her head was leaning on her knees for comfort.

"What do you suggest we do?" she asked, her voice was weak.

Haymitch watched her sulk and he just had to roll his eyes. This was the escort's greatest predicament; getting stuck in an elevator with her least favorite acquaintance and not making it to her appointment. Her problems were so petty that it hurts. Despite the irritation that boiled up inside him, he found himself answering her pointless question.

"We wait," it was a simple response, and perhaps it would not bring the escort any satisfaction, but that was all he had. He would suggest climbing up the shaft, but he doubted that she was up to it.

Effie sighed. He was right. It was all they could do. Sit in an enclosed room with a dim source of illumination, and wait. She gave him a subdued smile. It was her attempt at being civil. He shrugged in return, it was his. They sat in awkward silence, not wanting to talk. Speaking would only destroy their temporary ceasefire, because they knew that they had nothing good to say about each other. Instead, both stared at the tiny glow of Haymitch's flashlight. It slowly dimmed, flickered on and off, until it grew tired and died.

"Damn it," they said in unison. It was the closest thing they had ever gotten to a harmonious relationship.


End file.
